


Piers and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Realization

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Background Relationships, Guilt, Hero Worship, M/M, Post-Game(s), Sexual Guilt, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: It's not exactly a good thing to realize that you have feelings for an eleven-year-old.
Relationships: Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	Piers and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Realization

**Author's Note:**

> I think the title's fairly lighthearted considering the subject matter, but I feel like every fandom is required to have at least one parody title based on that book tbh. It's also a nice juxtaposition with the ideas of this fic.
> 
> I also don't think this fic is "dark" enough for the "Dead Dove: Do Not Eat" tag to be used, but who knows? Maybe I'm off. I do have the "Choose Not to Use Warnings" tag active, so I think it's fine. I'm not particularly fond of the narrative tone of this fic either, but it's whatever I guess. It was nice enough to have something to write.
> 
> This fic was supposed to be SFW (SFW as the subject matter could be anyway) and like 2k to 4k words, but it spiraled into the current length and rating. I actually had a hard time deciding between Mature or Explicit, but the subject matter and the detail pushed me to the latter.

Fuck. Shit. Hell.

He knows a plethora of curses—foreign and otherwise—and absolutely none of them could even begin to describe his current situation let alone the absolute disgust he feels at himself.

He likes women, and he likes men. He has his preferences—light-colored hair, primly dressed, and slender build or tall, dark-haired, and muscular. Perhaps it is cliché of him—overly plain and more fit for one of those movies Sonia likes so much than for he himself—but it is what is.

The most important part, however, is that neither of his preferences are even remotely similar to children.

In the terms of the platonic, it isn’t hate, more of a disinterest or ambivalence at most really. Outside of the exception of Marnie, he isn’t a particularly paternal or even intentionally brotherly figure. Certainly, there are people who see him as such, but he doesn’t try to be.

He certainly doesn’t go around intentionally befriending _children_. The word rolls on his tongue like a swill of alcohol, and bile rises within his throat again.

He doesn’t snoop around playgrounds in a shitty ill-fitted trench coat nor does he play into any of the stereotypes regarding his profession. He doesn’t feel anything when he looks at girls—they couldn’t be called women yet—years younger and years countable on both hands.

He is normal. He _should be normal_.

And that particular train of thought leads back to his current problem.

He likes Victor, much more than he—than any adult—should.

It hadn’t been instantaneous love or lust or whatever bullshit—he would have thrown himself off of a building already otherwise—but the crawling clench of fondness and childish ideation.

That is what makes him sick, truly and unanimously sick.

* * *

He hadn’t thought much about the boy when he had walked into Spikemuth’s gym, Rillaboom trailing proudly behind him and with its wood drum grasped in hand.

Certainly, he had noticed the lack of scratches and wounds on the Rillaboom, but he hadn’t thought much about that either. Most trainers carried healing items, some to an obnoxious degree even. Of course, he hadn’t underestimated Victor—the kid would have to be strong to reach Spikemuth with six badges—but he hadn’t expected the intensity in which he and his team fought.

A loss for Victor or perhaps a more even matchup is a reasonable assumption considering their difference in age and respective experiences. However, he hadn’t expected to be blown away easily, more akin to a frail leaf in a hurricane than a triumphant event like a tree trunk blasted by lightning.

There had been no fanfare when the battle started.

Before his Scrafty could even move, the roots of Rillaboom’s drum had torn through the stadium’s flooring—thank fuck, that particular repair was covered under the gym’s contract—before unceremoniously slamming his Pokémon into the chain-link fence. After the roots had receded, Scrafty had simply slumped over, knocked out cold.

It had left him stunned. He had expected some difficulty from Victor, but not a one-sided match.

His other Pokémon hadn’t fared much better either. Skuntank fell to Inteleon’s fast-paced shots and Malamar to Toxtricity’s electrical currents. Even his closest partner had fallen easily enough, having been outpaced by the boy’s own Obstagoon.

He wishes that he had brought Toxtricity as well, but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He still thinks that Victor had only swapped Pokémon during their battle to let them stretch rather than due to any real necessity or concern.

Facing Victor had felt like his first battle with Leon all those years ago.

Quick, brutal, efficient.

Afterwards, he faces his sister, and he loses readily enough. Brotherly pride had dulled the sting of defeat then—why wouldn’t he be glad about his sister surpassing him?—and he had been left alone to clean up after the others leave.

Back then, he hadn’t expect to hear a timid _Mr. Piers?_ as he is packing up his mic.

Mr. Piers? He isn’t that old.

Turning around, he sees Victor again. Perhaps he should have expected gloating—he unfortunately remembers what being eleven feels like—but Victor’s greeting had cast doubt upon that conjecture.

Unlike his initial entrance and his demeanor during their earlier battle, Victor shuffles forward, shoulders drawn together and hands clenched tightly around a book. He doesn’t speak even when he stops in front of Piers.

“Yeah?” Curiosity had driven him then.

“I-I was wondering if I could get your a-autograph!”

The request comes as surprise even as Victor stutters, the final part of his sentence hurried and higher-pitched.

Autograph? Most people asked for those after his concerts, not gym battles. Well, not that he has a large sample size anyway. People rarely visited Spikemuth, and the few that came for gym battles often left in curses, disappointment, anger, or a combination of all three.

Perhaps, he pauses for too long, but Victor continues, rambling, “You’re my favorite of the Galar circuit! Hop says it’s weird since his brother is better, but he says that about everything! I mean, he is cool, but I think you’re better. I tried coming here first, but the barri—”

 _Favorite?_ That isn’t a common sentiment. He more often hears criticism of his battle style—too subdued, too underhanded, and not flashy enough. Not enough Kaiju-esque Pokémon to sell oversized and overpriced plushies of apparently.

“I can. You got a pen?” he stops Victor mid-sentence. Maybe it’s a bit rude, but Piers thinks the kid could continue for hours if he’d let him. He’s much chattier now than he had been during their battle. He’s less intense—as intense as a pipsqueak could be anyway—and less silent.

He doesn’t remember ever hearing the kid give an audible command to his Pokémon, but it wasn’t like he could hear anything over the music, the cheers, and the roar of the roots breaking through the flooring.

Nonetheless, the kid doesn’t mind his interruption. Instead, he only brightens, his smile beaming and crooked.

He hadn’t been attracted to that then.

Victor had opened the book, flipping quickly to a particular page, and rummaged through his jacket’s pockets before pulling out a fine-tipped marker.

When Victor hands over the book and pen, he feels a hint of surprise when he sees his younger self, leather jacket and all, peer from the page. It is an older card, older than the one he normally sees passed around as his rarest.

He hadn’t remember printing many of these, and on the ones he had, he knows most of them have been thrown out. He hadn’t been famous—or infamous depending on who one asked—yet. Those cards hadn’t been worth anything.

“My mom got it for me for my last birthday,” Victor explains. “I think she got it from Mr. Leon.”

Mr. Leon. Raihan would have a laugh at that.

He carefully undoes the photo corners, pops the cap off the marker—it’s one of those expensive ones made specifically for autographs—and signs, blue ink sprawling.

“Thank you, Mr. Piers!” Any wider, and the kid’s face would split from his smile.

“It’s Piers, just Piers. Mr. makes me feel old,” he remembers saying.

“Oh,” Victor had drooped at that—the motion had reminded him of Sonia’s Yamper after being denied an extra snack—before perking up again.

“Thanks, Piers!”

It had been cute in a way, the excitement. It had been the sort of cuteness one associates with a younger sibling or perhaps one of those viral Skitty videos Raihan sends him on his breaks.

It certainly hadn’t been whatever the fuck he’s feeling right now.

Later, he helps his sister and the others make it to Rose Tower. It hadn’t been weird then.

In hindsight, it is everything that comes after—a cumulation of things.

* * *

Victor begins frequenting their house. It isn’t surprising or something inherently irksome to Piers. He is friends with Marnie after all, and Marnie making friends her age is always a welcome sort of event. She had been a rather shy child before Morpeko.

Thoughts drifting further, Piers remembers the first time Victor had stayed over for breakfast. The kid had fidgeted in his seat, leg bouncing like an agitated Spoink. The two of them had been alone together in the kitchen, and Marnie still in the bathroom.

She isn’t a particularly frivolous girl or overly concerned with her appearance, but Gym Leaders have certain standards—certain expectations—to meet and to maintain.

It is as much about appearances and the show as it is about skill itself.

It had been awkward then. He doesn’t really understand kids besides Marnie, and she herself is an exception. It’s only natural that he gets along well with his sister. He doesn’t think Victor would like being treated like Marnie, so he does the next best thing.

He ruffles Victor’s hair like how he sees Joshua does when his nephew visits from Sinnoh.

“Relax. You’re a guest ‘ere.”

Perhaps it is a bit careless to leave the pan set on the still very lit stovetop flames, but Piers doubts that he’s unlucky enough for a house fire to start. He doesn’t plan to leave it alone for too long after all—maybe thirty seconds to a minute at most. He had just wanted to ease Victor’s nervousness.

Maybe the eggs would be extra crispy, but it’s fine still. Marnie likes those.

Though, his actions hadn’t done much. Victor had only stuttered, blushing, before readjusting his hat back into place. Perhaps he should have expected something then, but he had assumed apprehension.

Thankfully, Marnie had returned then, finally finished with her daily preparations.

The air had shifted then, awkwardness shifting back to something resembling normalcy.

Piers had only half-listened then to their conversation. He hears them talk about the latest movie stars—Nate is particularly popular with Marnie much to his own distaste—and on the foreign circuits. Marnie doesn’t particularly keep up with it outside of Nate and a few others—she’s more interested in Galar’s—but Victor does.

Piers could not describe his enthusiasm as anything other than chatter, more akin to a Skwovet’s chitter than human speech.

“Slow down, Victor. You’re gonna choke,” he says, and Victor flushes once more, cheeks filled and reminiscent of a Greedent’s or perhaps one of those Dedennes he saw while touring in Kalos.

They aren’t particularly concerned about table manners in their household—he has to be considering he’s friends with Leon, and the man is similarly excited once the notion of battles comes up—but Victor’s excitement is both excessive and a choking hazard.

It wouldn’t do for Marnie’s friend to choke this early in the morning.

Victor swallows before speaking once more, cheeks still dusted a faint rouge.

“Sorry. Most people I talk to don’t really care about the circuits outside of Galar. They think it’s too boring.”

Piers nods at that. He gets the same criticism.

“I just really like watching them for the strategy. It’s really different from Galar’s”—Victor hastily amends his statement—“not that this league’s bad or anything—but the other leagues are just really different places without Dynamax. Especially Kalos!”

“Mhmm, yeah I get ‘cha.” A bit too generic of a response, but Victor brightens anyway. “Just don’t let your fans hear you say that. You’ll get hel—heck for it, ‘specially with that Kalos comment.”

The conflict may have ended hundreds of years before his own birth, but that didn’t mean sentiments had settled entirely. He had learned that during his tour. He may have visited the region, but that didn’t mean he was particularly popular there. It isn’t his music—Roxie has a particularly high amount of fans there, and her music is similarly composed—but an old rivalry.

“I won’t!”

Conversation had continued then, and he learns about Victor’s other interests. He isn’t as much of a battle freak as Leon—he prefers the prepping period and Pokémon breeding over the actual battle itself—but it isn’t by much really.

It is a peaceful sort of breakfast, and he’s particularly happy when Marnie starts bringing other friends over.

However, that still isn’t where his current dilemma had begun, but perhaps it had contributed to it.

Victor ends up visiting more, becomes less nervous around him even.

He even asks for advice.

Perhaps that is where it had spiraled.

* * *

“Piers, can you teach me to be intimidating?”

Victor’s voice is earnest as he asks.

It is an hour after dinner, and another night of Victor staying over in the guest room—not that Piers particularly minds. While it meant more dishes to clean, Victor, at the very least, likes to help out. He couldn’t say the same for some of their other (older) guests.

“The PR team said I should try that,” he explains as he notices Piers’s curious glance. “They don’t want me to be too similar to Leon, and they said I already had the basics down. I don’t really get it though. I just don’t think words are necessary in a Pokémon battle!”

His lips had scrunched into a childish pout then.

“Intimidating?” Piers isn’t particularly offended. He knows what his type specialty and looks entail, and he curates it.

At his response, a flush of red adorns Victor’s cheeks.

“I mean, you’re not as intimidating to me now, but when I first got to your gym, it was really nerve-wracking, especially with Team Yell there!”

Piers reaches a hand over, ruffling Victor’s hair once more. It’s a nice sort of amusement. Perhaps that was why Joshua did it so much to his nephew.

“I’m only teasin’. I know what I look like,” he says. “But why not ask Raihan? He’s pretty charismatic and knows the crowd. He’d ‘obably have better pointers as well.”

He isn’t wrong. Raihan certainly knows how to work up a crowd, and Piers does as well, but their specialties varied. To describe it in other terms, he is more akin to a “heel” than a “face.” He has his fans of course, but he doesn’t think Victor’s PR team would particularly enjoy it if Victor went down that route.

They want intimidation, not infamy. Furthermore, he doesn’t think Victor would be particularly good at that sort of appeal either. He’s too earnest, too round-faced and prone to childish sulking. He doesn’t really understand what’s going on in their heads—Victor’s too young to be scary—but he didn’t major in public relations. What did he know?

Really, he’s a bit like Marnie during her younger days. Though, that isn’t all too long ago. It's been four years at most since she’s met Morpeko.

Victor—face still red—pouts again, and his hands go to fix his hair and hat back into place.

“Yeah, but I want you to teach me!”

He doesn’t give a reason why, but Piers expects that. Most kids were like that. They didn’t give reasons for their whims.

“I tried imitating Green, but he’s too cocky! It’s embarrassing to say what he does, and Ethan sneers too much,” he continues, chattering. “It’s weird to try and act like them, and I already looked through all the other videos I have. And Re—”

Piers holds up a hand before speaking, “Alright, Alright. I get ‘cha. Don’t really know how much use I’ll be, but I’ll help.”

He should have declined then, but how was he supposed to know?

Victor’s smile is vibrant—shining even.

* * *

“Lift your chin m—no, not that much. You look like a Cramorant. Lower your chin a bit and tilt to the lef—no my left.”

They’re both frustrated at this point. It’s been exactly two weeks of practice, and they’ve barely made a dent into refining Victor’s public persona. They’ve solved some of the height issues fortunately—Piers got the idea of using wedge shoes from Allister—but their other, more pressing, issues remain unsolved.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Victor is awkward. He isn’t quite suited to the stage.

His elbows jut too much when he crosses them in imitation, and he couldn’t quite angle his chin correctly. Rather than appearing with any semblance of intimidation, Victor merely looked cute, as threatening as Sonia’s Yamper after a particularly hearty meal or a Pancham mimicking its evolution.

He simply couldn’t do it, not correctly anyway. As he is now, he’s simply too soft.

Victor’s stutter when he tries to practice his script—the PR team truly planned for everything—doesn’t help matters either. He squeaks, voice embarrassed and cracking. Unlike Leon, Victor isn’t a natural in the spotlight.

In some ways, his inexperience makes him more endearing.

A flash of annoyance flashes across Victor’s face, not that Piers blames him. They’ve been at this for hours already.

“Do you have any other advice? My first official match is in a week.” Victor’s voice is agitated—ruder than he would normally be—but Piers doesn’t mind all too much. It is, at the very least, better than the timidness of their first meeting.

And he has heard worse from his friends anyway. It’s all jest naturally, but still worse than anything an eleven-year-old could say to him. Kid’s voice hasn’t even dropped yet.

Instead of replying, Piers merely stands, chair squeaking, and walks towards Victor. He sees a hint of alarm and wariness in Victor’s eyes, but he doesn’t move.

Reaching out a hand, Piers presses his fingers under Victor’s chin and turns it gently before moving onto Victor’s arms and posture. He doesn’t want to hurt the kid, just to guide him. If an observation-based approach wouldn’t work then he would try a more hands-on one.

It’s getting late anyway. He doubts the kid wants to stay longer than necessary. Even their Obstagoons have left for the kitchen already. Observing them and their iconic stances hadn’t done much for Victor in the way of becoming intimidating.

“Understand now? You don’t wanna be too relaxed but not too tight ‘ither.”

Victor’s face is red as he nods. A bit weird, but Piers doesn’t think much of it. Spikemuth is uncharacteristically muggy tonight, and the ceiling fan is off.

Piers continues, “Try it ‘gain now.”

Victor complies. The motions are still jerky and a bit misplaced, but it’s leagues better than their previous attempts in his opinion.

“Better, but still needs work,” he says. “We can continue after dinner or ‘morrow if you want.”

Victor nods, face still flushed.

Goddamn, he should have noticed then.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

* * *

Victor’s first entrance isn’t the worst, but it isn’t the best either. There is an awkwardness to his gait—they should have practiced more on his walk—but he makes up for it in the main event.

Piers had been right. The kid hadn’t used any verbal commands during their battle. His lips don’t move even as Rillaboom cracks the earth open with the force his blow, shaking the stadium and blowing dust up.

His silence may not be the most intimidating thing, but it certainly adds a certain intrigue to his public persona.

People always enjoy a mystery to speculate about, and silence is one of the better ways to achieve it. They wouldn’t accept a simple reason such as a distaste for words, not without explicit confirmation from Victor himself.

People were funny that way. For public figures, everything has to have a meaningful reason. It couldn’t simply exist without some adequate, approved reason.

Below in the arena, Rillaboom roars once more, triumphant in his victory.

* * *

Under the evening sky, Victor is jubilant as he bounces—Piers couldn’t call it anything else without it being an understatement—toward him.

“How was I? I almost tripped on the way in, but I did it!”

“You were alright.” Victor droops at that. Damn, the kid really nails his impression of Sonia’s Yamper. He almost feels bad for being honest.

“It wasn’t awful, just needed more work and practice.” Victor perks up at that. “Also tone it down a bit. Don’t think your PR team would like it if you become known for mood swings. You gotta have some consistency while we’re in public. If you’re bouncin’ around all the time, no one’s gonna take you seriously when you do that shi—sort of act.”

Like a choking Cramorant, Victor nods vigorously—god, the kid could make a living on miming Pokémon—before narrowing his eyes in a laughable imitation of callousness or perhaps what he presumes to be aloofness. His cheeks are too round, his scowl too downturned to the point of ridiculousness, and his eyes too wide—the bloom of youth as someone had once called it. A bit shlocky in Piers’s opinion, but that novel, one of Shauntal’s newest works, had been a gift from Melony.

Not one of her best ones according to Melony—that title belonged to Shauntal’s _Justice and Innocence_ , an incredibly thick novel based on some encounter she had with a set of challengers a few years ago—but he doesn’t have much familiarity or basis on which to judge her works’ quality.

He hadn’t asked for it—he doesn’t even just casually follow Shauntal’s work—but Melony had insisted. She quite likes them, and they are rather good friends despite their generational differences. He couldn’t simply say no, and so, he had read it at her behest.

But still, that particular description, no matter his own opinions, describes Victor well enough in the current moment, and Piers couldn’t quite help but let a whistle of laughter escape his lips. He covers his mouth quickly with the palm of his hand, but it only makes Victor scowl—or rather, pout—more.

After that display, he couldn’t quite help himself either. With his free hand, he ruffles Victor’s hair—or he attempts to anyway. Victor had apparently grown wise after his previous (and numerous) attempts, and he swiftly moves his head out of the way.

After calming himself somewhat, Piers speaks, “Don’t try so hard. Put some of your own personality into it. It’ll come more naturally then. Don’t be so tense.”

Still mildly miffed—Piers could tell by the way the kid’s bottom lip jutted out slightly—Victor replies, “I’ll try.”

How cute.

“Good.” This time, Piers predicts where Victor moves, and his hand meets soft, brown hair. He ruffles it despite Victor’s protests. Faintly, Piers hears the sound of a stomach rumbling and sees Victor’s cheeks redden.

Unsurprising, the kid probably hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Official matches and their aftermath tend to take a lot out of a person.

“How ‘bout I take you along for dinner tonight? My treat for your victory. Marnie’s been wantin’ to try that place in Circhester—the one with the goofy mascot. I’d think she’d like you there as well.”

He receives an enthusiastic reply, and he feels Victor grab at his hand before tugging him forward. Piers feels his lips quirk upward.

Oh kids. He may not be the best with them, but they were rather predictable at times.

Especially Victor. He’s too obvious at times, overly sweet even.

* * *

Months pass without any particular difficulty—no rampaging monstrosities, no conspiracies, nothing. Victor and the other two still come around frequently—he’s still not sure why his and Marnie’s house had been designated as their hangout rather than Victor’s, Hop’s, or even Opal’s residency—but it is normal for the most part.

He works on his songs, helps Victor practice his acting, and so forth. It is a normal sort of existence.

Or at the very least, it should be in practice.

It is a particularly routine sort of night—no arguments between the kids, no arguments between their Pokémon, and no surprise visits from Raihan or Leon. He hasn’t eaten anything weird or particularly adventurous that night. Instead, it is a particularly mundane and perhaps even boring sort of dinner—a simple curried rice that Victor had insisted on making.

It doesn’’t taste bad at all—he rather likes it actually—but Piers remembers how he had retched it up hours later. It hadn’t been due to food poisoning. Instead, it had been from disgust.

He remembers going to bed particularly early—an hour or two before the kids did—but he had been sleepy that night. It’s probably not his most responsible decision as an adult, but he trusts his sister. She isn’t the sort to be easily bullied, and any particularly dangerous happenings or suggestions would be quashed immediately by her. Besides, his Obstagoon would still be awake with them. Even during his time as a Zigzagoon, the Pokémon had always enjoyed late nights.

There hadn’t been anything particularly off about his room or his bed—no stray ghost Pokémon or on an incredibly off-chance, Munna—but still, it happens.

Head upon his pillow and thick blanket pulled up, he had closed his eyes and drifted off.

It is a perfectly normal, mundane sort of night until it isn’t.

He dreams of a small, red mouth and chapped lips pressed against his own. Soft hands press against his hips before wandering curiously along his bare skin and up his sides until they still upon his shoulders.

Soft and small and eager.

He remembers how the figure had stood on his tiptoes to do so, body straining. He remembers pushing the figure onto the bed—when was there a bed there? —and his hands wandering upon pale, quavering flesh. He remembers his hands prodding at dark, perked nipples and his teeth nipping, leaving reddening skin in their wake.

He remembers groping at the other’s groin, hand pressed against a much smaller organ than his own and his fingers curling gently. He doesn’t feel much, if any, hair there yet.

A familiar voice urges him on, noisy and childish and wanting.

His mouth moves, his hands move, he moves.

And he fucks Victor fast and hard into the mattress.

It’s rough and callous and lacking in the gentleness of his waking self.

Whimpers and then whines and then noisy, wanton moans more fit for a whore than the kid he’s come to know well.

It should be shame that wakes him, but it isn’t. Instead, it is a crash from downstairs.

And the dream turns into reality and then into a nightmare as realization sets in.

And he curses, loud and without reservation.

“Bro?” He hears Marnie’s voice, uncertain, from outside his bedroom. Thank fucking god, he locks his door at night.

“It’s fine! Remembered I forgot to do somethin’ really important today,” he calls to her. “Don’t worry too much about it!”

It is absolute bullshit even to his own ears, but luckily, she doesn’t question him further. She’s probably more concerned about whatever they broke downstairs. Instead, he hears her footsteps recede as she makes her way back to the others. Below, he can hear Bede’s accusations, Hop’s annoyance, and most unfortunately, Victor’s voice as he attempts to mediate their argument.

He’s still painfully hard even as he walks to his bathroom. Now more than ever, he’s grateful that his bedroom has a personal bathroom.

He doesn’t close the door after he enters. Instead, he goes immediately for the toilet. Hands gripping tightly on the porcelain, he vomits—bits of yellow, brown, and orange mixed with specks of white—until nothing is left in his stomach, and his chest heaves. There’s nothing left to expel, but still, he continues until his throat his sore. The taste of bile and acid nips at his tongue.

Fucking shit.

Even when he stops, his lower half hasn’t receded in any sense of the word.

He feels the throb, painful, and he curses once more, words audible only in the bathroom. He doesn’t want to be overly noisy and draw Marnie or the other kids, especially Victor, back up.

Who the fuck dreams shit like that? He knows intrusive dreams are a thing, but he doubts that they were that vivid. As he remembers the details once more, he retches, dry.

However, his disgust and vomit hadn’t mitigated the problem at all. Instead, his dick is still painfully hard and presses against the cloth of his pajama pants.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He needs to check up on the kids after that crash—Obstagoon could only do so much by himself—but he cannot, absolutely would not, go down as he is now.

It is with shame that he finds himself standing in his shower, hand upon his cock, and the smell of vomit still permeating the bathroom.

His fingers are rougher and longer compared to the ones in his dream.

*

Thankfully, it’s only a vase and not anything truly important. Naturally, he hadn’t been able to look at Victor during their collective apology. Instead, he had focused on the wall behind Victor’s head. Nearby, Obstagoon stands, arms crossed and attempting to look stern. A bit of whipped cream sticks to his muzzle.

“Don’t look so smug,” he says, turning to the Pokémon. “I know you were bribed.”

Obstagoon, to his credit, has enough sense to look sheepish then.

He ends up getting the kids to bed then—Marnie to her own room and the kids to the two spare guest rooms. It probably isn’t the best idea to have Hop and Bede share a room, but they could learn to be better friends, he thinks. It’s the only room with both a fold-out futon and a standard bed.

He wants Victor in the room farthest from his own anyway.

With trepidation, he returns to his room. He needs to sleep—he has to meet with his producer at 11 a.m. exact tomorrow—but he doesn’t want to dream of _that_ again.

Mercifully, he doesn’t dream any further tonight—not of his daily life, not of his innermost concerns, not of Victor.

It is merely a sea of black.

*

He tries to not look at Victor when they have breakfast—It’s scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast today since Marnie wanted to practice her cooking—but his eyes wander, stirred by unwanted and morbid curiosity.

Victor’s lips are chapped again—he’s already advised the kid to use more lip salve, but he never seemed to remember—and a pink tongue pokes out between them, licking at the fleck of Oran Berry jam stuck to the corner of his lip. He raises a fork to his mouth, tines embedded in little bits of both egg and sausage, and he eats, cheeks protruding slightly as he chews closemouthed.

Idly, he wonders what it feel like to have Victor’s small mouth wrapped around hi—

Piers jerks then, his knees banging against the table and stopping the chatter around the table. It hurts, but he’s more concerned about his train of thought. Who the fucking hell thought like that? It’s one (still very unfortunate) thing to have a dream and another to bring it to reality, even as simply just a thought.

Fuck.

“I’m fine. Just remembered somethin’ important I have to do again,” he says as the kids look at him curiously. Another stupid excuse, but they accept it well enough.

Well almost, Bede looks as if he wants to comment, but he knows better. The kid has a sharp tongue on him—less chattery than Hop and more picayune.

Still, Marnie comments.

“Gettin’ old, Bro?” It’s more teasing than anything intentionally mean like Bede would say, but Piers nods, mind still agitated and wandering.

“Mhmm, you ‘ight have to take me to the old folks’ home soon,” he responds. It’s halfhearted, but Marnie smiles anyway.

He sees Victor peer at him from across the table. Piers knows that look. He wants to question, but he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s the tiredness that radiates from himself but Victor just stares, inquisitiveness apparent in the way his head tilts and how his eyes widen slightly.

It is a look of innocence, and it hurts him to stare for too long. It shouldn’t but it does, and bile rises in his throat again, but he swallows it down.

Breakfast passes without another interruption even as Piers barely eats. He couldn’t, not with the thoughts swirling within his mind. He ends up giving his leftovers to Obstagoon, and the Pokémon howls in delight. Truly, his ability should have been Gluttony instead of Reckless.

It isn’t the healthiest thing to do, but it’s better than scraping it into the trash. It’s Marnie’s hard work after all.

“Was it that bad?” Marnie asks as he washes the dishes. “Any shell? Undercooked?”

Piers shakes his head. “Nah, just wasn’t hungry this mornin’.”

He leaves it at that.

* * *

He hopes that his dream had been a fluke, a momentary mistake, but it isn’t—not by a long shot. Instead, it acts as a key would.

He dreams of Victor in ways that he shouldn’t—bare skin pressed against his, soft hands groping at the most intimate of places, and his voice encouraging. It shouldn’t happen, but it does even as he fruitlessly tries to avoid it.

On most nights, he ends up sleepless or with a mere three or four hours of sleep. On the nights that he dozes off for longer periods of time, he finds himself later awake, stirred by dreams and body aching in a way it never should—at least when it comes to Victor.

It’s fucked up, but he deals with it. He has to get rid of it. He’s tried simply lying awake at night or sleeping it off, but it doesn’t work. It’s overly uncomfortable.

On those particular nights, he finds himself with his face pressed into his pillow, back raised and slightly arched, and his hand below and stroking. It’s disgusting what he fantasizes and what he calls out, voice raspy and panting and inaudible to everyone except himself.

He imagines a warm mouth around his dick, and his dick pressed against the back the Victor’s throat. He doesn’t think Victor would be able swallow everything. He isn’t excessively endowed—he’s more on the average side—but Victor’s a bit small for his age, not that it would technically matter much in a fantasy, no matter how vulgar. But still, he finds himself cumming quicker when he focuses on those details—the difference in their respective sizes, the pink of Victor’s lips, and the softness of his hands. He thinks of Victor’s hands, small and slender, wrapped around the base of his cock, and his tongue lapping gracelessly at the head and length.

On some nights, he imagines roughly fucking Victor into the bed. He imagines Victor’s voice—high and whining—his hands clenching the sheets, and the boy’s face pressed into a pillow. He imagines dirtying him, blemishing skin with his teeth and nails digging—not enough to scar but enough to elicit a yelp and redden flesh.

And on other nights still, he thinks of Victor fucking _him_. He thinks of Victor, nervous and sincere and overly eager, fucking him. He imagines Victor’s hands gripping at his hips, his legs wrapped around Victor’s waist, and the mix of sweat and bodily fluid. He thinks of Victor’s nails scraping at his skin, trailing a return gift of red marks, and the combined heat of their bodies. The thought warms him in a way it shouldn’t.

It wouldn’t objectively be the best lay he’s ever had—Victor’s too inexperienced for obvious reasons, and his motions would be choppy, too slow or too fast—but it’s _Victor_. That makes up for it well enough in his fantasies.

It’s grotesque, but it is the thought of innocence—of Victor—that he cums to.

He has tried redirecting his affections—if they even deserved to be called such—elsewhere. He’s tried imagining someone else—darling blonds with large, innocence eyes to brunettes with toned physiques—and he even tries perusing the more risqué magazines and videos that had been popular during his adolescence.

It doesn’t work.

It’s not that he doesn’t find them attractive—they’re fine enough— _but they aren’t Victor_. They don’t inspire him the same desire, the same yearning to touch and hold that Victor does.

His restless nights begin to affect his day-to-day life. He’s more irritable and prone to snapping, voice snarling. Underneath his eyes, dark circles begin to form. He covers them up with his makeup naturally, but it doesn’t do much for his mood.

The only consolation is that most people expected him to be moody, volatile even. His appearance—dyed and layered hair, dark eyeshadow, and a slouched posture—helps their preconceptions well enough.

Outside of his closest friends and his relatives, most begin to give him a wide berth. He tries his best to feign normality, but his sister notices and worries. Unfortunately, she’s rather observant at times. He doesn’t tell her the reason of course. What sane person would?

During their practices, Victor questions. He’s not particularly subtle about it despite his attempts to be, not that Piers expects otherwise. He’s _eleven_ (and now he feels nauseous again). Most eleven-year-olds could barely keep their own secrets let alone pry into the worries of others.

He cannot talk about it to anyone—not to his family, not to friends, and certainly not to Victor himself.

Friendship could only withstand so much. Piers doubts that Leon particularly wants to hear about these sorts of difficulties—he has a younger brother, and Victor is his little protégé—and it would end in nothing but trouble. They’ve been friends for years, since before Leon’s reign as Galar’s Champion, and he knows the other man well enough.

He may not act like it on most occasions, but he had a ferocious temper when sufficiently stirred. “Poking the sleeping Bewear” as the saying went. Sonia and Raihan wouldn’t have any useful advice either. They’re both twenty-somethings and around his own age. What the hell would one say to someone who told you they were having lurid dreams and thoughts about a child? One wouldn’t. Instead, a call to the police was more likely. Furthermore, he doesn’t want to burden them.

On his associates and friends from work (or former work rather), the choices are few and far between. He isn’t going to fucking tell _Allister_ of all people about his issues. It’s almost worse than approaching Victor himself considering the kid was a year younger than the source of his current problems. Melony would be no help either. She’s a mother. Gordie may be an adult, but her maternal instincts would remain. On Gordie himself, they aren’t particularly close despite his friendship with his mother. The same issue exists for Milo and Kabu. They simply aren’t close enough.

Telling Nessa or Bea had the same problems as with Sonia and Raihan. They’re around his age. Moreover, Bea was still off in Johto for her training with Chuck. He doubts she wants to hear about his particular issues over a video call.

That leaves Opal, but he doesn’t want to speak to her on it. Despite her apparent eccentricity, she’s a rather protective woman when it came to the younger generation. She did take in Bede after all. Kid even lived at her house now.

There isn’t anyone he can speak to about it really.

He can’t speak of it at all even as his nights are ravaged by dreams and guilt.

* * *

It becomes difficult to practice with Victor. Unlike what their initial meetings had suggested, he isn’t a slow learner by any means. That isn’t the issue. Piers isn’t annoyed by that.

It is Victor himself that troubles him, or rather, his presence and being.

His eyes draw to the curve of his back—Victor had taken to wearing his official uniform and cape for their practices, and it’s a tighter fit than what he normally wears—and to the slight tilt of his head, inquisitive as always. He notices how his hair had grown longer. The rich brown strands stubbornly frame his face even as Victor attempts to tuck them behind his ears.

His fingers itch. He wants to comb them through Victor’s hair and brush his fingertips against the boy’s cheeks. They aren’t all too far away from one another. Today, they’re in Piers’s kitchen with Piers himself seated in one of the wooden chairs and Victor standing in front of him.

In particular, however, he notices Victor’s voice in a way he wishes he doesn’t—it’s still boyish, overly high-pitch in comparison to his own—and he wonders what it would sound like a different setting. Would it be keening, or overly soft, or eager as the one his dreams, or perhaps something else?

No, that’s not a good train of thought to approach now—not that it has ever been.

He shakes his head violently, attracting Victor’s attention.

“Did I do something wrong?” Piers feels a stab of guilt.

“Nah, not at all. Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do,” he lies, looking away. It’s the same tired excuse, but it had worked well enough.

“Why are you avoiding me then?”

“I’m not. Just been busy. Adult matters, you know?” Another lie, but he thinks his reasons are good enough. He’s been attempting to distance himself from Victor—canceling their practices, leaving just before Victor arrives with Marnie at their house, and so forth.

He couldn’t cancel everything, however. He doesn’t want to hurt Victor in either sense of the word, physically or emotionally.

“That’s not what Mr. Raihan said. I asked him about your rehearsal last week, and he said you didn’t have one on Tuesday.”

Fucking Raihan.

Piers couldn’t even take pleasure in the absurdity of “Mr. Raihan.” Much like Leon, it simply didn’t fit him, not as Piers knows him anyway.

Piers doesn’t really know what to say to that, but Victor continues for him anyway.

“And you don’t really touch me much anymore, mess up my hair I mean”—Victor quickly amends his statement—“Not that I want you to! It’s just…weird how you stopped suddenly.”

“You didn’t like it, so I stopped. Don’t see anythin’ weird ‘bout that.” His voice is feeble, bullshit to even his own ears.

“But you never listened to me about that stuff before!” Piers jerks, turning his head back towards Victor. He hadn’t expected Victor to yell.

He doesn’t expect to hear sniffling either or to see Victor rubbing at his eyes either.

Shit. He hadn’t wanted to make him cry.

“S-sorry. I ju-just don’t wa-want y-you”—he hiccups—“to be mad at m-me.”

Another round of sniffling as Victor rubs his eyes. Piers can see the tears leaking now even as Victor wipes them away hastily with his wrists and turns his face downward. His bangs have escaped yet again from behind his ear.

Fucking shit.

“I’m not mad,” Piers says after a few moments of near-silence—he couldn’t call it silence, not with the faint sobbing in front of him as the boy tries and fails to hide his emotions—and Victor pauses in his movements.

He isn’t. He truly isn’t. Instead, he feels the same familiar disgust well once more.

He should be normal, but he isn’t.

Piers hears another sniffle before Victor speaks once more.

“R-really?”

“Yeah.” He forces a smile, lips quirking awkwardly upward.

Victor doesn’t say anything even as the tears continue to flow. By the way his eyes narrow and the downward turn of his eyebrows, he isn’t convinced.

Fuck. Of all the times for Victor to be distrustful.

He doesn’t think Victor will listen his words, not on this particular matter anyway. And so, he leans forward, hand outstretched awkwardly, and ruffles Victor’s hair. Victor hadn’t moved out of the way this time.

His hair is soft even as it sear his fingertips and palms.

However, he doesn’t expect Victor to lean into his touch or for the kid to surge forward afterward and wrap his arms around him. He feels the other’s tears wet his shirt and jacket even as Victor tries to quell his emotions.

Victor smells of flowers and earth, and the scent numbs, beguiling and damning.

He shouldn’t, but he does anyway. His body moves without his volition, and he feels himself returning Victor’s hug.

It lasts longer than it should, but he doesn’t pull away and neither does Victor.

It hurts in a way he can longer truly describe.

* * *

Weeks pass, and his dreams continue as they are—dirty, sweaty, and entirely unfortunate. Though perhaps that isn’t entirely correct. Even before his current dilemma, he’s always been a bit of a deviant when it comes to his own private fantasies and to some of his more casual hookups—restraint and sex toys are only a few of things he finds slipping into his reveries.

He finds himself in a particular anguish, a particular routine of frequently sleepless nights and irritable mornings and afternoons.

Thankfully, his practices with Victor have decreased in number. The kid's a quick learner, even if he didn’t seem all too confident in himself on this particular matter. His walk is better—languid and more relaxed than the tenseness of their first meeting—and he doesn’t stutter as much when he speaks, not that he chatters much during his matches.

He isn’t as outgoing as Leon is or able to work up a crowd as his predecessor did, but Victor has his own sort of appeal—subdued, focused, and intense.

He expects—hopes—for their practices to end soon, but Victor seemed intent on continuing them.

The kid really needed to work on his confidence. He’s good enough to be Champion and that should be enough.

But still, Victor insists.

Thus today, they, alongside Marnie, are in Piers’s living room. Marnie’s presence is expected. It’s her home as well, and Piers isn’t going to kick his sister out simply for practice. Moreover, she offers another viewpoint on the issue.

Perhaps Victor would do better with advice from someone his age. Marnie’s particularly unbothered by the crowd.

Practice goes as well as it normally does—they don’t have much left to go over anyway—and it ends just before dinnertime.

“Stayin’ for dinner again, Victor?” he asks, turning his head towards the kitchen. He’s not sure what to make tonight.

His own personal feelings aside, he isn’t going to kick him out this late at night. Spikemuth, despite its appearance, isn’t a particularly dangerous city at night, and Victor does have his Pokémon as well, but Piers simply wouldn’t feel right about it.

Marnie wouldn’t like it either honestly. She always did enjoy having guests over even if she could be a bit aloof around them. He doubts she would like it if he kicked out her friend.

No response from Victor. He only hears the sound of him rummaging through his backpack.

Weird. Usually he would jumping at the opportunity to cook. Victor always did like to offer to make dinner, not that Piers always took him up on it. He doesn’t expect his house guests to do everything.

The rummaging stops, and he hears Victor shuffling, overly nervous.

“Piers?”

“Yeah?” He turns his eyes back towards Victor before focusing on the object in his hands.

“I want to ask if you’d come to me and Hop’s birthday!” Victor extends the letter outward, hands clasped tightly around it. “We have a joint celebration together every year since our birthdays are in the same week. Well, not last year I guess. The stuff with Sordward and Shielbert happened, so we ended up canceling.”

Victor’s word are overly quick, chittering, but Piers understands them well enough. They've been around each other for quite awhile after all.

He continues, “It’s the second week of next month! If you have time to come I mean. I asked Marnie to ask you, but she said It would be better if I did it myself.”

He’s sheepish then, and Piers can see his sister nodding along. Most likely, she had come along as moral support.

Victor extends the letter forward once more, and Piers takes it.

“I’ll try,” he finally says after a few moments of silence, and he can feel the disapproval emanating from his sister. “I have to look at my schedule again.”

Victor doesn’t deflate entirely. Instead, he beams. Apparently, he had been expecting an explicit “no.”

He couldn’t quite say “no” entirely, not with how Victor looks at him—wide-eyed, hopeful, and expectant. He doesn’t want to disappoint him even if it would be for the best.

He can’t simply rescind his answer either. It’s too soon. Instead, he focuses on other matters.

“So, what do you two want for dinner? We could do takeout.”

As pitiful as it is, that is the best he can do tonight.

* * *

Days pass, ticking down like the hands of a clock. With each day, Piers feels his dread build. A child’s birthday party shouldn’t inspire such a feeling, but he feels his reasons are justified. He could simply just schedule something on that day, but the idea of disappointment stops him.

He couldn’t simply crumple the invitation up and toss it away. That’s callous. He couldn’t pretend to lose it either. He’s fairly certain that would trigger another bout of tears—twelve or perhaps thirteen is still fairly young—and a few days of silence and glares from his sister. Victor had hand-delivered it after all.

He couldn’t simply mail his gift either. Perhaps Victor would be pleased, but his sister wouldn’t be.

Tonight, however, he’s stuck in a still house with only his thoughts tonight. No human company anyway. The kids have gone off for a night of camping in the Wild Area, and he’s not going to call and interrupt their fun.

Still, he’s agitated, both by his poor sleep schedule and by his worries. He’s not particularly big on watching television, and he and his Pokémon have already eaten. Cooking now would only be a waste of ingredients. Leftovers aren’t an option either—not with how crowded the fridge’s become since Marnie’s made friends.

He doesn’t want to call out his team either. They’re all good Pokémon, but not particularly well-suited to giving advice.

Piers sighs. Maybe he should go for a walk. Those usually cleared his mind or at very least, distracted him enough.

Before he could decide, however, he hears a heavy knock at his door. He wasn’t expecting visitors, and he doubts that it’s Marnie. She’s not the forgetful sort usually.

When he opens his front door, he finds Raihan with a pack of beer held loosely in one hand. With his free hand, Raihan waves cheerfully.

Without hesitation, Piers promptly closes his door, or he tries to anyway. Raihan had preemptively stuck his foot in the doorway. After years of being friends, Raihan had expected such a response from him. Rather than any actual hatred, it’s simply their routine greeting for one another.

He doesn’t have much choice but to invite Raihan in.

Instead of the silence before, Piers finds himself sitting on the couch with an open beer in front of him and on the coffee table.

“So”—Raihan's voice curls around the word—"what’s up? We’ve all been pretty worried ‘bout you lately. Sonia and Leon would have been here too, but well…I didn’t tell them. Thought you’d like a more personal conversation before we do a group intervention. Even got the group chat up and running already.”

Unlike his normal playfulness, Raihan gets straight to the point.

“Fine. How was your trip to Johto?”

A bit blunt, but it’s not like Piers wants to tell him the real reason. Who would?

Piers hears the slosh of alcohol as Raihan places his can on the coaster. Neither of them are particularly heavy or frequent drinkers, but tonight’s one of those nights—overly subdued and meant for drinking.

“Pretty good actually. Though, Lance was pretty busy with work. Bunch of challengers since the weather’s nice over there right now. Didn’t have as much personal time with him as I’d like,” Raihan says, frowning. “Don’t know why they won’t switch to a seasonal circuit like ours, but it’s tradition I guess.”

“And Lance?” He could draw the conversation out a bit more before Raihan truly began his pestering.

“Doing well. Got to meet his family this time”—he smiles at the memory—“Pretty traditional bunch, but they’re nice. Even let me enter the Dragon’s Den and have a Dratini. I can show you her later if you’d like. Bit late for me to call her out. She’s pretty young.”

Piers nods.

Raihan continues, “But still, back to the subject. You’ve been pretty moody lately. Well, moodier than usual. Problems with the music career? Marnie growing up too much? Victor maybe?”

Piers flinches at that, and Raihan grins at his response.

Fuck.

“What’s wrong with Victor? He can be a bit clingy from what I’ve seen, but that’s just his age. Probably just sees you as an older brother. Kids always want to hang out with people they admire.”

That certainly didn’t help in any capacity—it had the opposite effect really—but he couldn’t tell Raihan that.

Piers shakes his head.

“No? What is it then?” Raihan tilts his head. It’s not as endearing as when Victor does it in Piers’s opinion. It lacks a particular charm.

“I…I just don’t know what to get him for his birthday, and it’s comin’ up in two weeks.”

It’s a fucking bullshit response, and he catches Raihan’s frown before it quickly disappears. That wouldn’t explain away the other months. Thankfully, Raihan doesn’t push it any further. It’s too late in the night for an argument anyway.

“Really? Kid would probably like anything you’d give him. Hell, he might be happy if you just showed up, sans gift. You’re his favorite, right?”

Raihan truly is the worst.

“That’s a shitty gift, and you know it,” Piers grumbles. He couldn’t do much otherwise without raising suspicions further. “What’d you get him? A souvenir from Johto? A Rage Candy Bar?”

Knowing Victor, he probably invited everyone else as well. The kid was friendly that way, and his PR team probably liked the idea as well.

“You’re half-right.” Raihan grins. “Got Lance to get me Red’s and Ethan’s photos and their autographs. Lance even got them to pose with Venusaur and Meganium. You know how sparse those things are, right? Red’s pretty difficult to track, and Ethan hates the spotlight—never shows up to any of the sanctioned matches unless someone makes it pass Lance.”

Piers nods. He knows well enough from what he hears from Victor. Despite their continuing (and frankly, overwhelming) popularity on the battle circuit, the two never seemed to make any public or promotional appearances unless necessity demanded it.

Figures. Birds of a feather flock together, and the two are married. Apparently recluses attracted one another.

Picking up his beer again, Raihan continues, “But still, you gotta pick something soon, right? Don’t wanna be caught in that last-minute rush.”

Piers doesn’t reply. Instead, he only goes to take a sip from his own can. He doesn’t really understand why a beer company would pick Swirlix of all Pokémon for a mascot, but they are a Kalosian brand. Kalosian tastes are a near-foreign concept to him.

The taste is a bit too fruity for his palate, but Raihan always did like the imported liquor brands more than Galar’s.

Conversation drifts from the subject of Victor and to other affairs. Raihan chatters about his trip to Johto-Kanto and the cities and landmarks that the regions encompass, and Piers talks about his music. He’s still not popular in Kalos, but Unova likes him well enough.

They end up going through half of the box before Raihan ends up retiring to one of the guest rooms. Even with his initial obnoxiousness, Piers isn’t going to kick him out at this hour.

Despite the alcohol in his system, Piers doesn’t end up going to sleep until hours later.

* * *

A peculiar anxiety builds within him as Piers exits the Corviknight taxi. Postwick isn’t threatening in any sense of the word—it’s a rather sleepy place actually—but today is Victor’s and Hop’s birthday celebration.

He has the address and his gifts—a set of Power™ items for Victor and Professor Oak’s newest book for Hop—but still, it’s difficult to make his feet move. Thankfully, his sister pulls him forward. Both she and Morpeko are particularly eager today.

It takes then fifteen minutes to reach the place. It’s not particularly difficult to find. The people are kind enough to give directions, and even without them, they could have simply followed the path of streamers and party decorations and the sound of Charizard’s roar.

Hop’s mother is the one to welcome them in. She’s older and shorter than Piers remembers, but it has been years since he’s seen her in-person. He hasn’t been intentionally avoiding her or Leon’s house of course, but life is busier as an adult. He simply hadn’t had time to visit on most days, and unlike Sonia, he doesn’t live a mere town over.

He’s embarrassed when she checks up him as mothers often do. She asks about his health, his work, and a plethora of other matters, and she chides him on his appearance—too thin and not enough sleep. It’s not overly obnoxious—she’s been like this since the first time he came over—but he couldn’t quite leave to go put his gifts on the table.

He couldn’t depend on redirecting her attention to Marnie either. She had slipped away earlier.

Fortunately (or rather unfortunately), he’s saved from her doting by Victor.

“Piers!” He hears Victor’s voice from behind him, and he feels a tug on his sleeve.

He hears a chuckle—Hop’s mother’s—before Victor pulls him, bare hand upon bare hand, toward the backyard.

The only consolation really is that he’s able to drop his gifts off on the table on the way out.

* * *

Victor rambles on the way out. It’s not a particularly long walk from the front door to the backyard, but Victor fits in a surprising amount of information—his misadventures, his daily life at home, and a few other miscellaneous bits of trivia.

The backyard is extravagantly decorated as he expects. Leon and his family always had a certain flair to their affairs. He sees the standard streamers and balloons alongside the more whimsical—Pokémon rides, jugglers, and a few others. He sees Leon’s Charizard—it has to be his by the nock in the Pokémon’s horns—giving rides to the neighborhood children, and a few of his other Pokémon entertaining.

However, he doesn’t anticipate the crowds. He expects his former co-workers to be there—they are—and a few of the kids’ other friends and relatives. What he doesn’t expect is half of the town to be there.

Though perhaps he should have. Postwick is a rather small place. Everyone knows everyone else.

Victor continues chattering, his hand still gripped around Piers’s. He wants to pull his hand back, but he’s not quite sure how to do so without raising Victor’s suspicions again.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to think much longer as he hears a woman’s voice.

“Victor!”

From the crowd, a brown-haired woman appears. Clad in overalls and a plaid shirt, she blends into the sleepy atmosphere of Postwick.

“Mom!”

Oh, that isn’t good. He had expected a relative—the two did have similarities in facial structure and hair shade—but he didn’t think his luck was bad enough to encounter Victor’s mother this early on.

She reaches them before turning to her son.

“Are you bothering him, Victor?” Victor shakes his head, more of an instinctive motion than anything else, before he turns to Piers.

“He’s not,” Piers replies. His hands were probably sweaty now, both because of his own nervousness and Victor’s grip.

Victor’s mother nods before speaking, “Victor, why don’t you go play with your friends? I think Allister was looking for you earlier.”

Victor makes an “Oh!” sound, and Piers expects him to rush off—Victor never could quite sit still—but he doesn’t. Instead, Victor looks at him, eyes curiously nervous compared to his earlier excitement.

“Can I ask you something later, Piers?”

A bit weird considering Victor’s normal demeanor and inclinations—he thought that Victor’s nervousness had been stamped out already—but Piers nods anyway.

It couldn't hurt.

He feels Victor let go of his hand before running off. He expects this to be the end of the matter until Victor’s mother turns toward him.

“May I speak with you in the kitchen, Mr. Piers?”

Oh fuck. A plethora of scenarios run through his head. He doesn’t think his actions have been inappropriate—his thoughts certainly—but he couldn’t avoid her. He has no excuse.

“Alright,” he says before following her back into the house and then into the empty kitchen.

He expects the worst, especially with the ensuing silence.

Finally, Victor’s mother speaks.

“I want to thank you for looking after Victor.”

He hadn’t been expecting that, and apparently his confusion is obvious as Victor’s mother elaborates, “My husband died when Victor was five. Before he met Grookey, he was a very withdrawn child. He didn’t really talk to anyone except for me and Hop.”

“I…I’m sorry for your loss.” Piers doesn’t know what else to say. He had been expecting a condemnation not gratitude. Furthermore, how should one respond to this sort of information?

“Thank you,” she continues. “His father was an avid battling fan, recorded every single match—Dawn, Hilbert, Elio, Calem, all the big players you know? He wanted to join the circuit, any one of them, so badly, but he didn’t have any Pokémon besides Munchlax.”

She smiles mirthlessly.

“He wanted Victor to join too, and I don’t think he ever forgot what his father wanted. He used to lock himself in his room after school and rewatch every single match—“studying” he called it. Stayed up late for the new ones as well.”

He’s still not quite sure what she’s getting at.

“Well, he ended up latching onto you. Had his eyes glued to the screen for your debut. I’m not sure what he saw in you”—she amends herself—"not that there’s anything wrong with you, but you know how kids are? You don’t really know why they fixate on certain things but not others.”

Piers nods. He’s not particularly offended by her statement. He’s certainly not the flashiest person in Galar’s public eye when it comes to battling. However, he inwardly winces at her choice of words. He’s fairly certain she would disagree if she knew of his more “private” moments in recent time.

“Well”—she folds her hands—“I just want to thank you for humoring him. Victor can be a bit of a handful at times, and I’m happy his image of you was correct. You don’t know how many times he asked to go to Spikemuth to see one of your matches.”

She laughs lightly at the memory, and it only worsens Piers’s guilt.

“But that’s all I wanted to say. Again, thank you for taking care of Victor. It means a lot to me,” she says. “I don’t want to keep you for much longer.”

With that, she bids him a goodbye and exits, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

Well shit.

It’s both simultaneously better and worse than what he had been expecting.

* * *

Surprisingly, nothing horrible happens. The cake cutting passes without a hitch and so does the gift opening. Well, for the most part anyway. He had felt a blood vessel almost pop when Raihan had mouthed a “told you so” after Victor had showed more enthusiasm over Piers’s gift than his own.

But still, everything else had passed without concern.

Hours pass, and eventually, the party dims down. The neighborhood kids leave, and others like Bede, Allister, and Marnie retire to the guest rooms. It’s not all too different from what they normally do anyway. On the rare occasions that they didn’t hang around his house, they usually ended up at one of the other residences—Opal’s or Hop’s usually. Victor’s residence isn’t spacious enough to house four other kids, not when Hop’s is a seven-minute walk away.

Though, the party hasn’t technically ended yet. Instead, it’s merely adult hour—alcohol and conversation and all.

It’s not particularly interesting—even with the alcohol loosening everyone’s tongue—but perhaps that’s more because of his own lack of consumption.

He simply isn’t much a drinker, social or otherwise.

Thus, he finds himself outside near the pond again. It is a cloudless night tonight thankfully, no chance of rain to ruin his hair or makeup. He doesn’t expect company—everyone had been too enthralled by Leon’s mimosa-induced story to notice his leaving—but he ends up finding it anyway.

Or rather, it finds him.

“Piers?” He hears Victor’s voice from behind him, and Piers turns. His voice is timid again but that isn’t his chief concern at the moment.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? You’re gonna catch a cold walkin’ around in your pajamas.” Perhaps it’s a bit ruder than what he wants to say, but Victor doesn’t seem to be deterred by his words.

“Yeah…but I wanted to ask you something, the thing from earlier today! I’ll go back once I finish.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “I mean, if you wanna hear it anyway.”

Piers doesn’t see any real harm in it, so he nods. The sooner Victor finishes, the sooner he'd go back to bed anyhow.

He expects Victor to start immediately, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shuffles forward until he’s standing next to Piers. The pond isn’t particularly interesting tonight—Leon had the Goldeen relocated temporarily last week for the party—but Victor stares intently into the depths anyway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

Victor jerks out of his thoughts before turning to Piers. A faint blush tinges his cheeks.

“I-I’m thirteen now.” Victor pauses, attempting to collect his thoughts.

“Mhmm, we just had a party this afternoon to celebrate it. Don’t tell you want 'nother one already?”

“No!” Piers hadn’t expected such a response—not to a particularly lighthearted jab such as that—but Victor continues anyway.

“I mean, it’s not that. I’m older now—well I’m getting older a-an—”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t mean to rush Victor too much, but it’s a chilly night, and he doesn’t want the kid to get a cold.

“W-well, it’s I’m,” he stutters before taking a deep breath. Piers almost interjects again, but Victor beats him to it.

“I like you! I mean I like you more than as a big brother.” Victor’s face is overly red now, more akin to a Tamato Berry than a person.

Well shit. That’s the only understatement that Piers can come up with considering everything.

Unaware of Piers’s thoughts, Victor continues speaking, “I know it’s probably too weird for you right now, but can you please wait for me? I only have five more years! It won’t be weird then!”

His words are frantic and hurried even as his face reddens further. Victor’s nervous, rightly so considering the subject matter, but his emotions couldn’t compare to the turmoil Piers is experiencing.

It’s already weird now.

It’s not right, not with their familiarity and the thoughts he’s currently having—the ones that he immediately brushes away and back into the deepest corners of his mind.

“Please?” Victor’s eyes are hopeful, wide-eyed and childishly adoring, and the word pervades the silence that comes after.

He should say no, explicitly shut down Victor’s desires, but he doesn’t. His tongue can’t curl around the word correctly. It should be easy—“no” is a one-word answer—but it isn’t.

He doesn’t. He couldn’t.

“Alright,” he finds himself saying. “I’ll wait.”

Even as Victor’s eyes light up and he finds a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and a familiar warmth pressed against him, Piers finds the familiar taste of bile rising within his throat again.

He couldn’t say no.

Instead, he finds himself returning Victor’s hug.

* * *

And that leads to his current situation an hour later, heavily intoxicated and draped on Leon’s couch. It’s not like he’s the only one on the verge of passing out—Gordie’s already gone under the table, and he knows Leon is one mimosa away from following suit—but he’s fairly certain no one else in the room is drinking for a reason similar to his.

He is an adult—should be an adult, a _normal adult_ —and he should have said no, but he hadn't. He couldn't have. As vulgar as his thoughts are, they’re still thoughts. As repulsive as he finds them, they didn’t hurt anyone.

They didn’t give hope to anyone—confirmation to anyone or any desire—not like how his words and actions had.

He knows he shouldn't have said yes. He knows he shouldn't have let Victor, goaded by his recent success, kiss him—closemouthed and more akin to a peck than anything truly sensual.

Fuck, fucking shit.

He buries his face into his hands and groans loudly, attracting Leon’s attention. He’s one of the few people still awake. He may drink a copious amount of mimosas whenever they have these sorts of celebrations, but they were still mimosas. They aren’t exactly high in alcohol content, even with Leon’s personal modifications.

“You alright there, Piers?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just remembered somethin’ important.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do think Leon's a mimosa sort of dude. Dunno why, he just feels like someone who'd have one or maybe five at like 1 p.m. in the afternoon. I did intersperse in some fanon headcanons as well which isn't what I like to do normally, but I think it works with what I want to achieve. There's an almost "contrast" between what Piers worries about and knows about compared to what Victor would (since ya know, he's a kid. He's probably not aware of how much PR matters for public figures or historical events like a cross-region war).
> 
> There's also other scenes I cut from this fic—an explicit kiss, a scene with Sonia, and a relatively detailed description on the "deviant" section. There's a few other things I cut.
> 
> Also why Lance/Raihan? I like it more than Leon/Raihan, and I thought about having a concurrent chapter operating with Leon/Hop (for double guilt since I like guilt as a trope and more juxtaposition), but it was like nah. It'd be overly long. Lance/Raihan is just very nice to me even if it's rare, and it's something I'd like to write one day maybe. I dunno. I have a lot of stuff lined up rn.
> 
> And on the Raihan section itself, I do think he's a bit subdued compared to his canon self, but I decided to go that path since it's the "after-hours" (ie. not in the public eye) + I don't think he's tone-deaf enough to be cheerful while his friend's experiencing some sort of major problem. I also characterize Piers (it's so hard to not type their Japanese names every time tbh) as a bad liar for a similar reason (Private Life VS Public Life).
> 
> On Victor's characterization, I chose to go with a younger route and based some of his habits (such as his stutter) on my own when I was a kid. He's much less mature than the one in the other fic I have which is intentional. I also chose to go with the "child prodigy" route because honestly, it's more accurate to the games than having him have difficulty in the Gym challenge. Perhaps it wouldn't necessarily be interesting, but this fic is Piers-centered, not Victor, so I think it's fine as well.
> 
> It also gives a bit more contrast that I like since it's the whole "skill and innocence" juxtaposition.
> 
> I also could have gone on a much darker route for this fic, and I thought about it, but I think it's not "in-line" with Piers's character.
> 
> Though I finally get to move onto my other projects now.


End file.
